


Black Spots

by MajorTrouble



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Implied Non-Con, Jaskier is not a great person, M/M, Morally Grey Jaskier, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Public Hand Jobs, implied underage non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24682900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: Jaskier is fourteen the first time he takes someone’s life. He stops counting after the fifth. What’s the sense? Though he does get a certain shivery feeling every time that white calm descends on him.When he meets the Witcher, he doesn’t tell him about his past. But then, the man never asks.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 167





	Black Spots

**Author's Note:**

> I was scrolling through tumblr and someone suggested a Jaskier who learned to kill when he was young and then my brain spiraled and I couldn't get it out of my head and now we have this.
> 
> WARNINGS: Violence, Explicit, NSFW, Implied Non-con, Death (not main characters)

The first time it happens Jaskier is fourteen. His best friend is the inn keeper’s son and they spend long summer days running away from chores and responsibilities. Lettenhove is a sprawling port city and they find plenty of ways to get in and out of mischief and trouble. They steal pastries from the baker. They distract the blacksmith’s daughter until the fire in the forge burns too low and he bellows at her in anger. They play dice in the streets and trick drunkards out of coin. 

Jaskier almost forgets he’s a noble born son. Almost forgets he is free of consequences. But his best friend is not. So when they cheat the wrong people and get separated, it isn’t Jaskier they run after. Oh no. And they corner his friend, those three boys no older than him, and they use their fists to teach him a lesson. 

When he hears the  _ crunch _ that means his best friend’s nose will always sit crooked on his face from this moment forward, Jaskier’s mind goes calm and white. He leaps on the back of the first boy, driving him sideways into the wall to crack his head against the stone. He lies still on the cobbles, blood pooling beneath him. The second whirls to meet him with wide eyes and flailing fists. Jaskier ducks under his clumsy punches and grabs his dagger from his boot, slicing upwards as he rises, drawing a line of blood and pain through the boy’s thin shirt and across his torso. He screams and staggers backwards, scrambling to turn and run. 

The third boy narrows his eyes. His punches are more calculated, more well aimed, and Jaskier takes one to the face, his teeth cutting into his own cheek. But his dagger is faster and it sinks into the side of the boy’s throat so easily. 

Jaskier is fourteen the first time he takes someone’s life. 

His parents line pockets with coin. They bundle him off to Oxenfurt. He never sees his best friend again. 

The second time it happens, Jaskier is sixteen. 

Going to Oxenfurt had been a dream. It is everything he could have hoped for and more - so much to learn and do and see. Music filled his ears and mind and fingertips and made him feel so much that he was breathless with it. Like something slotted into place and made him more than the sum of his parts, made him worthwhile and loved. 

His best friend is another noble born son. A little older than him, but wise in the ways of love and song. He teaches Jaskier how to flirt with the pretty girls behind their fans and the pretty boys behind their hands. He shows him the best places to drink and the best places to sing. And Jaskier trusts him.

Trusts him until they are both wine drunk and love sick. Sprawled on the floor of his best friend’s room, Jaskier is happy and sad and content at the same time. Nothing could be better in this moment than being here, with his best friend, talking about love and history and song until the early hours of morning turn the sky pale pink. 

But his best friend kneels over him, gathering his wrists in one hand and pinning them above his head. He speaks of other things, of roughness and lust, as he undoes Jaskier’s doublet and runs too warm hands over the shirt beneath. Jaskier tells him no. Says it again and again. But his best friend doesn’t listen and holds him down harder, bruising and biting to keep him still. This isn’t pleasure; it’s pain and it feels like betrayal.

The calm whiteness returns. And his best friend lets down his guard, believes he’s won. But Jaskier is fast and  _ strong _ , stronger than most think, and he uses his body to pitch upwards, dumping his best friend off of him, away from him. The other boy snarls and lunges back, grappling and trying to take - because that’s all he knows, really. How to take what he wants. But the dagger is faster. And it slips between ribs as easily as into a throat, puncturing a lung and grazing the heart. 

And so, Jaskier is sixteen the second time he takes someone’s life. He ties his clothes around a rock and throws them in the river. Bodies contain so much blood.

The servants find the body, but Jaskier is asleep in his bed and he cries when they give him the news. 

But it doesn’t stop. There are others in this world who would hurt his friends or take what they want and he knows how to stop them now. Knows what to do. How to do it. 

He stops counting after the fifth. What’s the sense? Though he does get a certain shivery feeling every time that white calm descends on him. And maybe he starts to seek it out. Maybe he practices and finds someone to train him so that he is quicker with his dagger. More accurate, less likely to spray himself in blood and gore. Doublets are expensive, after all. 

When he meets the Witcher, he doesn’t tell him about his past. But then, the man never asks. They travel together for three years, drifting into an easy pattern of months together and weeks apart. Jaskier loves being a bard. He loves the attention and the joy of performing to a new crowd every night. He loves the feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction in composing something he knows people will enjoy. And he loves traveling beside the reticent Witcher - Geralt of Rivia - with his infernally grumpy demeanor, white hair, and amber eyes. 

After three years, he can admit to himself that he’s even in love with the man himself. Only in the privacy of his own thoughts. Only when he knows Geralt isn’t looking at him, can’t see the fondness and desperate longing.

But every so often he feels the restlessness descend on him. The addiction of that slow, calm, snowy whiteness that seems to soothe every part of him. In his more self-reflective moments, he admits that it might not be considered right or good that he has this compulsion, but he pushes those thoughts away in favour of a new adventure or a new song.

Or a new kill. 

Sometimes he can slip out when they’re in a town or village, make himself look vulnerable and complacent and the fools come to him. Sometimes he has to hunt them down himself. And sometimes, if he’s very, very lucky, and Geralt is distracted, he can end the life of a creature or a bandit and sate that need. 

He believes he’s being sneaky. Stealthy even. And three years is a long time. Geralt has never once indicated that he’s been suspicious of Jaskier. Never once questioned him when he came back to their shared room (on those occasions they had need to share one) late at night, slipping in like a shadow. But he’s always been careful, nonetheless. Always cleaned his weapons before returning, and made sure to check his clothes for spots of blood. 

So he believes he’s in the clear. Because honestly, who would suspect a bard of such gruesome deeds? He’s cultivated that reputation very well. And it’s led so many people to their unsuspecting deaths. He’s actually rather proud of that. 

Tonight, they’re staying in a cottage, a guest of the local nobility. It’s warm, and it’s quiet, and it’s far enough away from the main village that they can barely hear the drunken singing from the closest tavern. It’s the end of the festival days in this particular square of the world, just after the harvest. 

Geralt sits by the fire, sharpening his swords in an easy rhythm. Jaskier sits across from him, mug of ale dangling from his fingers and staring moodily into the flames. He’s been feeling restless for weeks, but this is the first decent sized village they’ve been in for a while. They’ll be here a few nights - there’s something in the woods but it’s only active around the time of the new moon. Eventually he polishes off his drink and stands abruptly, heading into one of the two bedrooms, closing the door behind him. Geralt barely looks up at him as he passes.

That really should have been his first indication. 

Jaskier strips out of his clothes and redresses in black breeches and shirt, tucking in the latter carefully. He’s done this countless times before, but tonight he feels like he may vibrate out of his skin with the need. He lays down in the surprisingly large bed and snuffs out the candle, slowing his breaths and relaxing, listening to Geralt as the other moves around the cottage before heading to bed himself. 

He waits until everything has been completely still and quiet for as long as he can take it. Then with quick, practiced movements, he silently pulls on his boots, checking that his daggers are secure, and then opening the window, dropping outside onto the dry grass. He takes a few more moments to listen, hearing the calming chorus of night sounds coming from the surrounding meadow and the village. 

Quietly, his tread as light as he can make it, he heads into the village. He keeps to the edges, gliding through the shadows, padding up the alleys, and listening. There’s always one. One person with a twisted set of thoughts that the world would be better without. And if he can’t find them, he knows he can make them find him. 

The village is large, probably a few thousand people, and the alleyways are sufficiently dark and cramped so as to keep him hidden. He wanders close to one of the taverns, listening to the bawdy songs pouring forth from the brightly lit interior. It’s getting very late now, so there is a steady stream of patrons making their way clumsily home. He slips into the line, pretending to drunkenness, joining in on a few shouted choruses of horrible singing and shared laughter, moving further along the darkened roadway. He walks with the group he’s chosen for a while before he bids them a sloppy goodnight. They all cheer and wave him off. He meanders down the street slowly, listening intently for his likely target. And just there - he hears the scuffing of hard soles on cobbles. He pretends to trip, grabbing on to the side of a building for balance, right at the edge of an alleyway.

The target takes the bait, rushing him from behind and pushing him into the gaping maw of blackness. He shouts, tripping again but very carefully staying upright, gauging his opponent as he comes closer. 

But he’s suddenly thrown face first into the wall. The body behind him is unyielding and the hand around his wrists is like a shackle, holding them together in the small of his back. That calm whiteness starts to descend as he gets ready to move, muscles bunching and hips twisting to throw off his assailant. 

He freezes as a familiar voice breathes, “ _ Jaskier, _ ” right in his ear. “ _ Did you think I wouldn’t notice, Jaskier? _ ” the voice is low, dangerous, like distant thunder.

“ _ Geralt, _ ” he whines, then clamps his mouth shut, heat rising up his throat and over his cheeks. He is no longer calm, no longer cold and white. He is panicking and too warm. “What wouldn’t you notice?” he tries, sounding not half as calm as he wants to pretend. 

He’s pressed harder into the wall and he gasps at the sensation. It’s a filthy alley wall but having Geralt’s entire body flush against his as he’s ground into it makes his heart beat faster. 

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are. When you come back smelling of blood. And satisfaction.” Gerallt grips his wrists tighter, grinding the bones against each other. Jaskier grits his teeth, determined not to make a sound, though the rest of his body is already betraying him: heart beating faster, breathing coming in quick pants, heat pooling in his groin. Geralt’s voice is soft and menacing when he speaks. “I’ve been following you. You leave a trail of bodies wherever you go.  _ Are you killing for fun? _ ” He snarls this last part, teeth snapping so close to Jaskier’s ear that he nearly feels them.

He wants to feel them. Wants them digging into his flesh hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to bleed. The dark pulse of arousal that moves through him causes his cock to twitch despite being caught against the stone wall. It’s not the same calm white feeling of before, but it’s close in a way that makes no difference. It’s a promise of violence and he shivers.

Geralt inhales against his skin, right under his ear, at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “I see,” he says slowly, and Jaskier can hear the curl of a smile on his lips. “Not for fun, and not for no reason. I’ve never seen you hurt someone who didn’t  _ hurt you first _ .” He emphasizes the words by bringing up one of his hands to tangle in Jaskier’s hair and use it to pull the bard’s head forcefully to the side, exposing the long line of his throat. He leans forward, thrusting his hips against the curve of Jaskier’s ass, and he can feel the Witcher is hard. 

Geralt licks a stripe up his long pale throat and growls in his ear, “Tell me you want this. Or tell me no and I’ll let you go. We’ll never speak of this again.” He waits, holding the other man in place as he makes his decision.

Which isn’t really a decision at all. “ _ Yes _ ,” Jaskier whispers. Geralt growls low in satisfaction and sets his teeth where his tongue had been, biting down hard enough to bruise. He whimpers under the assault, trying to push back against the hardness he feels, but he’s held immobile, completely at the mercy of the Witcher behind him. 

Suddenly he’s spun around and that mouth, those teeth, are on his, demanding as Geralt kisses him with focused intensity. Hands free, Jaskier wraps his fingers in white hair, dragging sharp nails over his scalp and swallowing the low sounds of pleasure that Geralt makes in response. For his part, the Witcher has one hand on his hip, the other just around his throat, thumbing at the pulse point there and making Jaskier shiver again. 

He breaks the kiss to bite marks into Jaskier’s collarbone instead and his hand moves to cover Jaskier’s still clothed cock, pressing down on it. The bard’s hips buck forward involuntarily and he gasps harshly, burying his face in Geralt’s shoulder to cut off any other sound as Geralt unlaces the front of his breeches and takes him in hand. 

“Do you like watching them die?” Geralt murmurs in his ear and Jaskier’s eyes snap open, breath coming in harsh pants as he speaks. “Does it feel  _ good _ ,” he emphasizes by tightening his grip as he slides his hand along his cock, head to root, spreading precome to ease the way, “when you lead them on a chase? What do you think about when you watch them bleed out? I’ve seen the look in your eye.” He sets a steady pace, nipping and licking at the skin on Jaskier’s throat and chest - anywhere he can reach. “ _ I want that. I want you. _ ” 

“ _ Geralt _ ,” he gasps. “ _ Please. _ ” But he doesn’t know what he’s asking for - begging for. The hand on his cock slows and he realizes Geralt is waiting for an answer. He tries to organize his scattered thoughts. “Yes. It feels good. One less evil. One less bump in the night. I - I think about that. It feels… satisfying.” 

“Hmm. Just that?” 

“It’s - it’s a calmness, a feeling of blank whiteness that blankets my thoughts. It’s pleasure and satisfaction and - fuck, please - and it feels  _ so good _ .” 

“Does it feel like this?” Geralt kisses him again, sharp teeth cutting into his lip and tongue sweeping out to taste him, again and again. His hand tightens around Jaskier’s throat, making him pant harder, and black spots dance in his vision. He strokes him in short, brutal pulls, twisting his hand over the crown of his cock and digging his thumb under the ridge and Jaskier is coming, helplessly panting and moaning, unable to catch his breath as the dark pulses of pleasure wash over him, leaving him weak-kneed. 

Geralt leans back, loosening his hold on his throat and bringing his other hand up to lick it clean of his spend. Jaskier’s cock twitches uselessly at the sight, and if Geralt’s other hand wasn’t still pressing him into the wall, he would have slid down it at that point. Geralt tucks him away, and Jaskier’s unsteady hands re-lace the front of his breeches. 

They stare at each other for a moment, assessing. Finally, Jaskier reaches up to cup the other’s cheek and draw him into another kiss. It tastes of come and blood and makes them both moan. He pulls away long enough to study the WItcher for another moment before smiling darkly. 

“Yes.  _ It feels like that _ .”

Jaskier was fourteen when he killed for the first time. But he’s twenty-five when a Witcher teaches him the real difference between pain and pleasure, and the line where they blur.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you for reading. Your comments and kudos mean the world to me.  
> Come find me on tumble [major-trouble](https://major-trouble.tumblr.com/)


End file.
